


What are you, lord Snow?

by Turkey_the_bird



Series: Unnatural [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Book Verse, Feelings, Jon Snow Comes Back Wrong, Jon Snow is an Other, Other!Jon, White Walker Jon Snow, partially, poor Jon - Freeform, wight Jon - for a moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turkey_the_bird/pseuds/Turkey_the_bird
Summary: They say he isn't the same. That his body isn't his. That his mind isn't his.They are right.





	What are you, lord Snow?

**Author's Note:**

> Happening before my story “Farewell, brother” (cause it is normal to write backwards *_*) and maybe answering a little why was Jon how he was.  
Following books (but I am not so sure about Jon’s thoughts and character)

It happened when they wanted to burn him. He rose, but not how Tormund wanted him to rise. With black hands, dead skin and too bright eyes.

Ghost had been acting strangely since the death of Lord Crow.

‘Second life,’ Borroq, the skinchanger, had muttered.

Ghost didn’t want to come near the dead body. Now he growled soundlessly and bared his teeth when the corpse turned his – _its_ – head slowly, searching for the nearest victim and clumsily standing up.

There were only three of them in the courtyard – Tormund, Ghost and Val. She had allowed no crows, who were supposed to be his brothers, not even Satin, to touch him, and prepared his body on her own. _The free folk could be his family – better than all of the black bastards._

The wight turned to Val, and she froze for a mere moment in shock. She liked this crow, he knew. At least that much how someone can like a crow.

Tormund ran, but the direwolf was faster. He leapt and tumbled the corpse down before it could attack Val, who meanwhile drew her dagger.

_Fire. I need fire._

He heard the sounds of struggling, but he paid no mind to it. He grabbed a torch and ran back. The creature had its dark hands around Val’s throat, but before he could intervene, it collapsed suddenly and stayed lying lifelessly.

‘What happened, Val? How did you-’

‘It wasn’t me. His eyes,’ she sobbed, ‘they were _grey_.’

***

They say he isn't the same anymore. 

His body isn't really his. Some days he doesn't feel anything. Like a puppet with strings attached.

Some days he feels. Feels the tingling in his bones, the cracking of his frozen muscles. He is stronger these days. Unnaturally stronger. It’s _their_ magic, he knows. It claims him. It _changes_ him. The blackness of his hands fades. But it doesn't change to normal human colour. It is paler. As unnatural as the black one before. The black colour of his cloak. Of his boots. Of his hands.

His mind is as black as his cloak, as his honour, and his skin is as white as his name. Good name for a bastard – but not good for a monster.

They notice it too. They don't speak about it, but Jon can see it in their eyes. The worry, the fear, the anticipation if he turns against them someday.

Only Tormund wants to spar with him anymore. Some days Jon beats him – his rage and bitterness multiplied tenfold, the little control over his emotions he had had before the betrayal and before his staying in Ghost unlashed, untamed and wild as of a caged wolf, the rage making him stronger as it always does.

Some days it can’t even be called spar. Jon is too fast, faster and stronger than he, as an average fighter, has any right to be. Faster than any human has any right to be. Frost always covers Tormund’s beard after that.

Some days he loses – his movements sluggish and clumsy, reminding him of the wight in him. The amount of these days diminishes slowly.

He prefers these days to the others.

***

He hears them. The voices whisper in his mind. Sometimes he can't understand them. Mostly he can.

_They fear you. Give them reason for it. Destroy them._

He may be weak, not whole, not remembering everything, but it is easy to ignore them when they say this. He knows it is not him who wants it. He can chase their ideas away with the help of Ghost’s presence in the back of his mind. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get rid of them for good. Some part of the Other, the substance, the magic got stuck in him when he unconsciously slipped from Ghost into his body and ripped it from the cold claws of the White Walker who controlled it. He doesn’t know if the White Walker did it intentionally or if it was his own doing, but it doesn’t matter. It is there, in him, and he can only fight to slow it down like a poison slowly flowing through his veins.

Other voices are worse. They know his biggest fears. The problem is he can't tell if it speaks his consciousness or them.

That is the time – when he is the most vulnerable, unsure of who he is, _what_ he is – when it happens the most quickly.

He remembers the moment when he saw a strand of his hair turned white for the first time as though it were yesterday. Maybe it was. He can’t really tell. Nobody saw the sun for ages – what is worse, Jon doesn’t know if he really wants to.

The night before, after sparring accident with Leathers, the voices were especially persistent.

_You are not one of them. You have hurt them, and you will hurt them again_. 

‘I don’t want to hurt them!’

_No, but you will. Today you broke his hand with your own. A bit more of strength and you will break his _neck._ You should leave. _

He should _have_ left back then. It wasn’t as he was beneficial to the free folk or to the Night Watch. They shouldn’t trust him with fighting the wights – not when he can’t trust himself.

But he decided to sleep instead — not that he needed sleep. The following morning, he found it – a strand of his hair so contrasting with the dark rest.

White.

He almost cut himself in his haste to cut it away and toss it to flames.

When he disentangled from the darkness, which swallowed him whole, there were two fair strands of hair. He didn't cut it since.

White. White is a good colour for a direwolf. But not good for a monster.

***

When he first experienced the burst of uncontrolled energy with the voices baiting him, it collided with the wolf in him, battling, struggling, clawing. It was a destructive combination. So when the next time the tingling started, he asked them to chain him. They didn’t. He found some forgotten shackles, but it was for naught. As everything he has ever done. He couldn’t save Arya, his little si – no, he lost the right to call her that, he isn’t her brother anymore, he is something different, unnatural. He couldn’t save the wildlings in Hardhome. He doomed Gilly’s child to a frozen life – or a frozen death.

The shackles cracked after a while, as though it was ice, not iron. But it could be ice for all he knew – it was cold enough.

He also tried locking himself in an ice cell. But it only made him stronger and the voices louder.

_You are nastiness in human’s clothing._

Aye, he agreed. Aye.

***

They say he isn't the same. That his body isn't his. That his mind isn't his.

They are right.

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive my mistakes. I am not native still.  
Don’t know whether I continue this someday.  
Probably not, for it is stupid. As everything I do.  
Why do I do it to myself? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
